ArchivedLogs:Fix Us

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Fix Us
Dramatis Personae

Flicker, Hive


"... been bad a long time."


<NYC> {Birdhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side

This house does not, perhaps, look much like what many people would think when they think of the home of a rock star. Modest and not flashy in a normal sense, it is nevertheless /eye/-catching -- huge tall ceilings, huge tall windows, wide open layout, a balcony from the second floor looking down on the first. Its walls have been studded with a number of long branch-like poles jutting out at angles; from the ceiling hang a few different trapeze-like swings. The furniture is minimalist, low-slung futons and a few overly enormous puffy beanbags, tables set low to the ground. The extravagant entertainment system is the one concession to ostentation.

Most of the ground floor is open in layout, foyer opening up into a huge living room, kitchen and dining rooms adjoining it, a small sunny conservatory tucked to the other side of the living room that looks out over the river, a wide full bath off the conservatory. The three bedrooms off the balcony upstairs each have their own bathrooms. There's another full bath and separate smaller kitchen in the basement, together with two spare guest bedrooms and a somewhat cluttered soundproofed room full of musical equipment.

Clarice's bedroom hasn't actually changed very much at all, Clarice's things barely touched in the past months. Hive's presence in here comprises mostly only a backpack tossed into the corner of the room. From the unfolded pile of laundry sitting on the armchair in the corner to the laptop still permanently scrolling through a slideshow of pictures to the belt sitting on the desk in the middle of being carefully tooled, the intricate design half-finished in the leather, it looks kind of frozen as it was in the fall.

Kind of. There is, at the moment, a lot of /glowing/ going on in the room, overlaying and overlapping much of its space and furniture. A shrunken-down model of a house -- Hive is standing in the middle of it, at the moment, still in pajamas though it's late into the afternoon already. His eyes are narrowed, stylus held in his mouth, bare toes scrunched against the floor as he stares into the luminescent construction around him. The calculations ticking through his thoughts are warring heavily with the gnawing background hunger clawing in his minds and a wrenching pulse of headache intermittently turning the holographic blueprints around him into a mess of swimming blur.

Flicker hasn't been home long. Still dressed for the snow outdoors, mostly. Boots gone and scarf and gloves gone, but he's yet to shuck his hat or coat -- still crusted with melting ice. He's taken the short way over here from the Commonhaus, (jump-jump-jump--) maybe it's the pain that draws him or maybe just --

He's shedding his coat even as he lands, one arm tucking around Hive's bony shoulders. Gently steering the skinnier man towards the bedroom door. Doesn't /say/ it's maybe time to take a break -- doesn't really need to, with the thought already clear in his mind.

Hive doesn't look up at Flicker's arrival -- just leans in, body fitting itself into the crook of Flicker's arm just as it curls around him. He lifts a hand, plucking the stylus out of his mouth. He shifts easily along with Flicker, at first, but then stops. Half-turning, he plucks the cold damp coat from the other man's hands, hangs it on the back of the bedroom door. Hat, too. In gruff Thai: "{I'm fine.}"

Flicker's head tips down. Arms shift. Relinquishing his winter gear as Hive reaches for it. "{Fine.}" The echo comes with a small huff. He shimmers out of place. Back into place behind Hive, fingers kneading at the base of his skull. "It's getting worse, again." The worry behind these words is formless. Kind of distant, kind of -- not. His eyes have drifted away, searching the holographic structure around them. Habitually ignoring the pounding behind his eyes.

For a moment the pounding grows -- not stronger, so much as more /present/: Hive is focusing on it with a sharp awareness, a light mental touch pressing thoughtfully at the ache. There's a dim undercurrent of worry beneath the touch, echoed in the tensing of Hive's shoulders and the slow bump of his forehead up against the other man's. << It's getting worse -- >> Somewhere inside him he's /thinking/ about straightening, thinking about pulling away from Flicker, thinking about --

-- instead he just leans more heavily against his best friend, eyes closing. "Flicker." There's a rough heaviness to his tone. "This isn't --"

Flicker is the one pulling away, completing the impetus that Hive began. A slow drift of motion, hand lingering on the other man's shoulder even after he's turned. "{It's /fine/.}" Gruffer than his usual tone.

Now Hive huffs, quick and small, lifting a hand to close over Flicker's calloused fingers. "{Fine.}" The amusement that flares in his mind is, admittedly, not very amused at all. In their minds there is a shiver -- a slow tremor of threads that have been binding them for so long it's hard, really, to /find/ their ends. "I could fix this. It /could/ be fine. How long has it been since..."

Flicker's hand turns up, clamps in hard around Hive's. His other arm shifts slowly -- a small testing movement that comes with a muddle of feelings, fearful and uncertain. Something /missing/ where once he was --

-- but this thought flits out of reach jut as quick, pushed aside to make room instead for a more practical concrete worry. << Can't fix it /now/. They need (me/us.) Jax -- our team. I need to be -- >>

Hive turns, arm curling back around Flicker's shoulder. "It's getting worse."

Flicker leans in, head dropping in against Hive's collarbone. His own shoulders hang heavier -- his own thoughts hanging heavier. Trying to ignore the growing ache pounding in his skull (trying /not/ to think back to Hive, too-thin, too-tired, but his thoughts are straying there over and over and over /anyway/.) His mechanical arm moves stiffly to lift, curl against his friend's back. In his mind there is fire and blood, a harsh chemical burn searing into his face, a jarring wrenching pull of being puppeted around well past the point of physical exhaustion --

His hand drops again. Slow. Heavy. His other just curls hard, bunches Hive's shirt into a fist. "... been bad a long time." His voice is shaky. "Are you -- if we -- are you going to..." The worry that congeals in his mind might be wordless, but it certainly isn't formless, strong and deep and fierce with a sharp flare of concern.

Hive pulls in a slow breath, and starts to steer Flicker, now, towards the door. "I can't remember what it was like to not be us," he answers honestly. "But I'm still not going to be /alone/. Come on. First we'll eat. And then --"

<< And then. >>